A Eulogy﻿I hope at least some of this is coherent. Some of what I say I may be saying strictly for myself. Some of it may reflect the feelings of others --feelings for a mother and for other loved ones you’ve lost and still miss. I’ll leave it for each of you to pick and choose… No place for a better start than with the obvious: Alzheimer’s sucks. And it was a final, cruel, life-test for a woman who had been tested time and time again throughout her life. A woman who demonstrated a quiet strength and dignity with each and every test she faced. As much as the disease would allow her, she continued to demonstrate that strength…that dignity…clear up until the day she passed away. I’d like to think of mom now…I will think of mom now…as sitting beside dad and smiling, with my oldest brother, Byard Lee, close beside them; all their differences, all their conflicts, all of life’s emotional baggage gone, replaced with an overwhelming sense of love and understanding. Real or not, that’s the image I will keep forever in my mind. I once gave mom a note, shortly after I finished going back to school and moving to Roseburg, Oregon for a teaching job. In that note I tried to express what I could not say face to face: that whatever good I have in me, whatever level of decency that might be there, I believe I received directly from her. I gave the note to her at a time in her life that, in looking back, I don’t know whether or not she was able to read and understand it. But I’d like to think she could and that, even if she couldn’t, she still knew the depth of love and gratitude I tried so lamely to express. The love and gratitude that each of us feels for a mother who worked so hard, who tried so hard, who loved so deeply, despite every external and internal obstacle that might have been stacked against her. If she were here with us today I would say thank you. I would thank her for her gifts: * The subscription to Dr. Seuss books when I was very young, that started a life-long love for reading and books. * The candy bars brought home from the grocery store –just for me and no one else knew. * The electric typewriter she gave me for graduation, the biggest symbol of her confidence in knowing that her youngest loved to write. * The beaters from the mixer, dripping gooey and good with chocolate cake mix. I would thank her for her protection: * The automatic seat-belts she employed, her arm slamming against your chest if she felt the need to brake a bit hard –which was fairly often. * Her covering my back when it came to dad and I knew I was really in for trouble and probably well deserved it. I would thank her for her discipline (or her attempts at discipline): * The times she wore herself to a frazzle with a belt while we wondered what it was that was patting at our butts and legs. * The time she bought “Mom’s Helping Hand,” a plywood paddle she used to try and keep Gary, Glen and I in line on our vacation through Oregon. (She quickly found out the flat side had little effect, but using the edge was much, much more effective). Her’s was a tender heart: * A heart that often may not have known how to deal with the conflicts it faced, but never wished for harm to any she knew and loved. * A heart that showed itself –along with about four pounds of butter— in the bread she made. * A heart that worked hard to raise five kids and the emotional turmoil that kids bring without even being aware they bring it. * A heart that stood solid in a marriage that, like most marriages, had more than its share of challenges. * A heart that found joy in children: a joy that I hoped my own children would feel, recognize and make their own. * A heart that instinctively knew how to take a boy –who often felt lost, confused and alone— and make him feel special and unique. * A heart that each of us holds so very closely. A heart uniquely human. I will always remember and miss that tender heart, that decency, that underlying strength. I only hope that I’ve been able to reflect a small part of the goodness that was in her to my own kids, so it will continue to radiate out and touch the lives of others. I will be forever grateful to you mom. Through you I know…I am certain…there is goodness in the world. I will always miss you. I will never, ever stop loving you. And I will always be proud to say you were my mom. Thank you.﻿

I was reluctant, but knew I had a problem. I needed help, so I finally took the plunge. Me: “Hi everyone. My name is William and I’m a social media addict.” The Group: “Hi William.” Me: “I never thought I’d be standing here in front of a group like this, but hey, they say the first part is recognizing you have a problem, right?” The Group (nodding): Me: “I probably started out as many of you did, I set up a Facebook account thinking it might help me promote my writing, maybe help me keep connected to my kids and friends. But I think I knew it was a lie when I started. I was actually frustrated when I started. See, I not only set up a personal Facebook account, but a professional one as well. At the same time I set up a website --again to promote my writing. I spent hours trying to get a decent photo to use as an avatar, figuring out how to post to one page and share it with another without it duplicating and sometimes triplicating the post. Some people kept poking me and I didn’t know why or how to stop it. I looked for a ‘slap’ or ‘hit’ button, but there was nothing but the ‘poke’ thing. So I poked back. Hard. Multiple times. I didn’t realize at the time that some people enjoy getting poked. Sick, I know, but I played into it and even today I have people randomly poking me. To my shame, I’ll admit that I sometimes like it. It escalated fairly quickly. I saw people post funny quotations, pictures, even short films. They got a lot of “likes.” I wanted to share witty things. I wanted to think people were laughing at what I shared. I hoped –sometimes prayed—that people would comment on my posts. I started off wanting “likes,” but then my obsession grew to where I needed “likes.” I wanted people to like my website, my professional Facebook page, my regular Facebook page. I tried to overlap postings so more people would see them and, hopefully, like me. When I received a “like” I felt like Sally Field accepting an Oscar. Depending on the post I sometimes even cried a little when I was “liked.” My obsession spread. I opened a LinkedIn account. I somehow had it in mind that if people connected with me there it meant they liked me, maybe found me interesting, maybe even liked my work. I soon found out that wasn’t always the case. Sometimes they connected with me on LinkedIn just to build their own connection base and to make themselves look better. I was just a number to many of them. I felt so used. I went back to focusing on Facebook and my website. I kept telling myself it was to promote my writing, but by then I knew it was a lie. I became an expert at lying to myself. I quit working on my novel, telling myself I simply didn’t have time. Yet, I found plenty of time to check Facebook. My sickness grew and I began looking on the web specifically for humorous things to post on FB. FB…huh…I’ve grown so used to it now I often refer to it simply by its initials. And others with my same addiction know what I’m referring to. The other night I fell asleep in my chair. I woke up, my head on my laptop, drooling on my keyboard. I had posted ‘aldskvn[oeingzkfhgalnveoiang’. People posted back asking if I was okay. I wasn’t. But I wasn’t yet willing to admit I had a problem. Someone “unfriended” me on Facebook. I felt as though the wind had been knocked from me. Soon after, someone unsubscribed to my blog and “un-liked” my website. I cried for three hours, curled into a fetal ball on the floor. But I was sure I could get more friends and more “likes.” I began to hunt harder for things to post that would engage people and compel them to “like” me, my professional Facebook page or maybe even my website. I began re-posting other people’s funny posts because I could not find things funny enough to post on my own. I grew frantic. I even went so far as to make a Bitstrip of myself so I’d have more material to post. I knew I’d hit rock bottom when I posted two cats licking each other. There was some veiled sexual humor to the post, but in looking back at it I have to admit, it was pretty pathetic. That’s when I knew I needed help and why I’ve come here to this meeting to open up, put it out there and let loose of it all. So there it is. And why I need your help and support. ” The Group: Me: “Um…sorry, the lights hitting the podium are kind of bright. I can’t see you all very clearly. Hey, what the hell? What have you guys got in your hands? Are those smart phones?” The Group: “Um…well…just needed to check…it’s um…” Me: “You mean I’ve been up here spilling out all of my shit and you guys have been checking your Facebook pages on your phones?” The Group: “Well….umm…just for a sec…we were listening, just…” Me: “Damn, you guys are sick. But thank you. I now realize that I have a long way to go before I hit the bottom you guys are feeding at. I’m outta here.” The Group: “But wait…” Me: “Hell, no. I’m going straight home and write a blog about this shit, post it, then post it on both of my Facebook pages.” The Group: “But…” Me: “Nah. I can see now I actually have a handle on this. There’s no problem. I’ll just focus on using FB to promote my writing. I’ll just work on my book if I don’t have something of substance to post.” The Group: “But…” Me: “Later taters. I’m outta here.”

I figured out some time ago that my sense of humor doesn’t always go over with some people. Those people are usually way too normal, so their under-appreciation doesn’t prompt me to construct a noose or stuff my head in an oven. If they’re bold enough to comment on my immaturity I usually respond with “I know you are, but what am I?” It’s always hard to refute solid persuasive techniques. But then there are doctors. After my recent few go ‘rounds with the doctor I’ve become convinced that few –if any—have a sense of humor. I first noticed this lack of humor over twenty years ago when my oldest daughter was born. My wife was on the bed, knees up, screaming through contractions. I alternated between watching a basketball game on the television mounted on the wall of the hospital room and attempting to sooth her, which only brought on greater screams. Looking back, I’m not sure if it was my watching the game or my soothing bedside manner that caused the screaming to amp up. The doctor was down where she was supposed to be, doing her thing. Finally, the baby came out. The doctor held up the baby for me to see. “Well, dad, what do you think?” she asked. I pointed to the umbilical cord. “Now that’s my boy! Look at how well hung that kid is!” The doctor glared at me. “That’s the umbilical cord, not a penis. It’s a little girl.” Me: “I knew that. It was just a joke. You know? A joke?” Doc (Glaring): Me: “Heh, heh…?” That didn’t work out too well, so I tried a joke when our second daughter was born. Just after my wife gave birth the doctor looked at my wife and said, “Now that wasn’t so bad, was it?” Me: “Not too bad. I’m feeling pretty good actually. Could go for a sandwich though.” Doc (Glaring): My latest failed attempt at humor with a doctor was during my recent medical exam. Doc: “That mole on your side by your waist looks kind of odd.” Me: “You mean the one on my love handle? ‘Love handle.’ That’s a technical medical term.” Doc: “Yeah, whatever. I think we should have it removed.” Me: “Oh. Okay.” Doc: “Now drop your pants and bend over the table.” Me (dropping my pants): “Boy, if I only had a nickel for every time I’ve heard that.” Doc: Me (bending over the table): “Be gentle with me doc and just leave the $20 over by my coat.” Doc: Doc (After her brief anal invasion): “Everything feels alright there.” Me: “I certainly thought so. Was it good for you too?” Doc (glaring): “We’ll send you home with a kit so you can take some stool samples for us.” Me: “I hope it’s a big kit, ‘cause I had one helluva breakfast.” Doc (glaring): Me: “Okay, how do I go about working this kit?” Doc: “The directions are on the box. Just follow those.” Me: “Okey-dokey.” Usually a chirpy okey-dokey brings a smile to any one, but this doc’s facial expression appeared to be carved out of granite and only had one mode: glaring. Doc: “Come back next week and we’ll remove the mole.” Me: “Okey-dokey.” I figured since she was still glaring I’d give her a double dose of the okey-dokey thing. I went back the following week. In some ways it was a repeat of the previous visit. Me: “Hey doc, is there any way we could remove the mole with liposuction and then maybe catch the other love handle too?” Doc: “No. We’ll be cutting it out.” Me: “Aww. Cut that out.” Doc: Me: “Okay, so where do you want me?” Doc: “Up on the table, pants down, laying face down.” I jumped up on the table and decided I’d lay off the jokes for a bit. I watched as she prepared the needle and then walked toward me. Doc: “Okay, first you’re going to feel a little prick.” Me: “Really? Are you just gonna softball ‘em in like that?” Doc: “What do you mean?” Me: “Nothing. Never mind. I’m okay.” Doc: “Okay. First the little prick.” Me: “That’s what she said.” The little prick ended up being a huge sting. I’m not entirely certain it needed to hurt quite that much. Maybe she was tired of my humor. Doc: “And now you’ll feel a little burn.” Me: “Penicillin will take care of that though, right?” Doc: When she was done cutting, she sewed it up and slapped a Band-Aid on it. Doc: “That should take care of it. If you’re comfortable removing the stitches you can do it yourself in a week to ten days or you can make an appointment to come in and have them removed. Just keep them clean and don’t scratch at them.” Me: “You mean the stitch could itch like a bitch? Heh, heh. Just thought I’d throw some alliteration in there for ya.” Doc: “Okay, whatever. We’ll have the test results from the mole and the sample you brought in within a couple of days and give you a call.” Me (feigning hurt): “That’s what they all say. ‘I’ll call you,’ but then they never do.” Doc: That’s when I was certain that doctors either had no sense of humor or they simply hated my sense of humor.

That is, until I got the call a couple of days later. Me: “Hello?” Doc: “We got the tests back. There are traces of blood in your stool, your blood counts are off a bit and the mole could be pre-cancerous: a melano (-something-or-other-I can never remember words with more than eighteen syllables) so we’ll need to take out a bigger piece.” Me (still trying to remember what ‘stool’ was): “Uh. Um. Blood in the stool? The mole is a mela –whatsits and you need to cut out a bigger chunk?” Doc: “Yep. So we’ll schedule that and see if we can set up a colonoscopy, but we’re booked out for the next four months.” Me: Doc: “Okey-dokey?” Truth be told, she’s probably still laughing.